


Secrecy

by novel_concept26



Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chloe and Aubrey are best friends; always have been, always will be. Which is what makes this whole thing so weird. Because, see, best friends don't keep secrets from each other. Most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrecy

  
No matter what happens, they’re going to be there for each other. It was a pact they drew up freshman year, when Aubrey bumbled her way into Chloe’s backside at orientation and, instead of glowering or telling her off, Chloe simply lit up with a smile and announced, “Beyonce’s new album is the _best_.”

The beginning to a beautiful friendship, Aubrey remembers thinking then, and it’s still the case now. Four years down the line, with so much behind them—the beautiful, heart-breaking mess that was the Barden Bellas, her captainhood, memorable moments of both song and gastrointestinal unpleasantness—they’re still inherently _them_. Aubrey is still something of a control freak, simultaneously terrified of following Daddy’s advice and disappointing him; Chloe is still utterly without boundaries, utterly without cynicism, prone to grasping for her hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

Which isn’t as easy as it used to be, now that they’ve slipped almost seamlessly back into their old worlds. Chloe has stayed on near the campus, working as a music instructor at a prestigious little middle school. Aubrey, conversely, has skidded all the way back across the country, to Seattle, to the job she had always known would be waiting for her.

Her father’s law office is not at all l _iving the dream_ , but then, he’d granted her four years of freedom to live whatever dreams she wished—as long as she’d lived them proudly. And with boundless success.

(In the end, she supposes she did do that. Even if it wasn’t always as delicate and simple a process as he would have liked.)

She hasn’t always been the greatest at making friends, and maybe Chloe wasn’t the kind of person then (or now) she expected to grow close to, but that’s never mattered. Chloe grounds her. Chloe makes her feel beautiful. Chloe makes her feel like they will always come away the betters, as long as they are working together to reach a goal.

They’re apart, and it’s different now, but not _that_ different. Chloe is still bubbly and just the slightest bit off-kilter; Aubrey is still anxious and taking on far too much. And they still have things like Skype and their phones between them, which makes Aubrey, at least, feel a little better about everything—even if it isn’t _quite_ the same, seeing Chloe’s fingers wiggle at her from behind a MacBook camera.

It’s still, she reasons, better than nothing.

***

Chloe’s had friends a-plenty throughout the years, but she’s never quite had one like Aubrey. It’s hard to pin-point what makes Aubrey so special. Maybe it’s the way she smiles when her hair is down, on the rare occasion she isn’t freaking out about something. Maybe it’s the knowledge that she will always, _always_ fight for what she cares about—which, in nine cases out of ten, will always mean Chloe. Maybe it’s just the fact that they _get_ each other, deep down in the very tissue, the very _fabric_ of what makes them who they are.

Chloe’s always had friends, but Aubrey is her _best_ friend, and—she figures without logic or need for debate—always will be. That’s the thing she likes best about them, even when they argue over Aubrey’s chokehold on reality, or over Chloe’s habitual flitting from one person to another in the romantic realm. They are _always_. It’s just so easy to be herself with Aubrey that she can’t imagine ever being anyone—or anywhere—else.

When they split apart physically, Chloe goes out of her way to hold on tight to everything Aubrey is. It isn’t that she believes they won’t make it (as if, she thinks with a little laugh, they are some long-distance couple on the rocks); it’s just that Aubrey tends to get lost in things if she isn’t careful. She stretches out her hand so far for things that, sometimes, she kind of forgets to steady her feet at the same time. She falls. And, for the last few years, Chloe has always been there to catch her.

But they’re miles and miles apart now, and that makes the catching a little more difficult than Chloe’s used to. So she sends mountains of texts, and she schedules Skype dates, and she does her best to keep them in the same stable place they’ve always been. She burbles about her day. Aubrey raves about her father. It’s business as usual, and they are, as ever, beautiful.

It’s not perfect, but then again, Chloe thinks, maybe perfect was never an option.

***

Things start to change after a few months. They’re still talking the way they always have, and Aubrey is still waking to texted photos of puppies and smiley-face-shaped pancakes, but something starts to feel…new. Not bad-new, not really, just not the same as it once was. And, by the time she notices it, she realizes it’s probably too late to go back. They’re growing up.

This was supposed to happen after high school, she remembers; her mother had told her all sorts of tales about her own friends, splitting up across the country, learning new things about themselves, exploring the world. People change, she’d said with a smile, and that’s not something to be ashamed or frightened of. It’s just the way of things.

Aubrey never really had cause to find out what her mother meant, back then. Her friends were few, and her dreams shone brighter than all of them put together. What counted was _getting_ somewhere, and if other people got left behind in the process, so be it.

(She realizes now that she might not have understood her mother’s words because it was _her_ who was growing, discovering, exploring. She was the one outgrowing everyone else. And it never even crossed her mind to stop it.)

It didn’t bother her then, but it sort of does now. Chloe is still Chloe on the phone, her voice light, her laughter zipping and twirling down the line, but she’s talking about so many things Aubrey doesn’t quite know how to follow. The kids she has fallen in love with are not children Aubrey will ever meet. The ins and outs of teaching are not what Aubrey will ever understand. And though, intellectually, she realizes the same probably goes for Chloe’s end of things—puzzling through her legal jargon, listening patiently to drawn-out tales of paperwork and her father’s stronghold on her life—it feels sad, somehow. Like Chloe is leaving her behind.

When November comes and goes, and they’ve only Skyped three times, it feels at once like a hole has dug itself into the center of her chest—and, oddly, like something that was always bound to happen. They’re just not the same, anymore, not exactly.

Distance, she guesses, does things even to the best of friends.

***

When it first stops being her impulse to text Aubrey about the new events in her life, Chloe doesn’t notice. She’s so busy, with her kids, with her student teaching, with the vocal exercises she needs to keep her throat at its peak, and it gets hard. She starts to cut out the things she can’t afford to focus on, little things here and there, and though Aubrey will never fit into that category, she does get a little…shorn. Just a little, just enough that it leaves Chloe feeling almost butterfly-ridden, when her best friend’s face appears on her computer screen. Those chats are growing rarer than they should be.

Not that it can really be helped. Aubrey is pulling long hours at work in Seattle, and it’s not like this is a one-way street; _she_ hasn’t been texting so often, either. Chloe guesses this is just the way things go sometimes, and as long as they do still talk—even if it’s not every day anymore—it doesn’t matter. Life getting in the way is just something that happens.

She still loves Aubrey best.

Mostly.

The thing about that, the weird, awkward, niggling little _thing_ about it is…maybe Aubrey isn’t so much the instant number-one in her life anymore. Maybe she’s kind of got someone else now—not a best friend, not a _replacement_ (because who could ever dream to replace Aubrey?), but…

Okay, to be fair, she really shouldn’t feel guilty for falling in love.

She doesn’t know why she doesn’t feel comfortable telling Aubrey about it right from the start. Sure, they maybe haven’t always seen eye to eye on her relationship history, and yes, this is just the _tiniest_ bit different than anything she’s been involved in before, but Aubrey is her best friend. Best friends understand this sort of thing. That’s what best friends are _for_.

It’s the first real sign that things are changing for them, when Beca Mitchell kisses her on a Saturday evening, on the baseball diamond at Chloe’s school, and she doesn’t immediately run home to recreate the whole night for Aubrey.

***

She doesn’t _mean_ to fall into it. In fact, for as long as Aubrey can remember, she has prided herself on not being the girl who falls for boys with big feet and crooked smiles and bright brown eyes. For as long as Aubrey can remember, she has prided herself on not being a girl who falls for boys much at all.

In college, at least, she avoided it. Most of the boys she knew were either in frats (and therefore exactly as bad as her mother had warned), or in the aca-world. And those in the aca-world were absolutely, without a doubt, one-hundred-percent off-limits. _Forbidden_ was the word she clung to, if ever a grin or a nudge was sent her way. It just wouldn’t be appropriate, to sleep with the enemy.

Or to receive hilarious, borderline-nerdy E-cards from them on holidays.

She finds Jesse—or, to be more accurate, _he_ finds _her_ —on Facebook a few weeks before Thanksgiving. He looks the same as she remembers, which makes sense; _he’s_ still in school, with his nose to the same old grindstone. Still living in an awkwardly two-toned dorm room with Benji. Still working at the radio station.

Still a Treble.

She doesn’t remember much about him at all, except for his face, which is exceedingly and frustratingly attractive, and his voice, which is more so. And, of course, there is his history with one of her own Bellas—Beca Mitchell, whose attitude and zeal for misbehavior on the a capella front no longer irritates Aubrey, but who also will never be her sister, exactly.

They just don’t click. It’s a thing. Aubrey doesn’t see a point in fighting it.

She doesn’t remember much about Jesse at all, apart from the way he looked on stage, and the way he always used to grin at Beca when he thought no one would care. _Aubrey_ cared. Aubrey cared a whole hell of a lot, and she should _still_ be caring now. Once a Bella, always a Bella (so long as no captain strips you of your scarf). And, consequently, the same goes for Trebles.

So, when Jesse sends her a message one afternoon—just a little “hey, your girls are doing awesome, just thought you might like to know” thing that he really doesn’t have to do—she shouldn’t respond. She also shouldn’t accept his friend request an hour later, when the conversation has somehow melted from taciturn and business-like to “your favorite movie is Sixteen Candles? Mine is The Breakfast Club! And also Rocky III.”

She _also_ shouldn’t smile when, later that night, she receives a text message from an unknown number that says, simply, “Can I borrow your underpants for ten minutes?”

He is _such_ a dork.

***

Beca is impossible _not_ to fall in love with.

Chloe probably could have said that upon meeting her, and still known the weight of its truth, but it’s not until now that she really _believes_ the words. Beca is impossible not to fall in love with. She never brushes her hair, and her eyes are always darting from corner to corner, and her lips hum songs that you would never think of putting together, and she’s just so _unbelievable_ that it kind of hurts Chloe’s chest sometimes.

Beca hasn’t actually changed all _that_ much since last year; she’s still terse often enough, and reserved, and far too sarcastic for her own good. But she loves music the way Chloe has since, basically, birth, and she doesn’t hide it anymore. There’s a reason the girls voted her captain.

Chloe falls faster than even she is used to, and it doesn’t help that Beca seems to be, for once in her life, all in. The emails that used to ask for advice on choreography and song choices rapidly transformed into “how was your day?” and “I saw a necklace today that reminded me of you. When’s your birthday again?” The Skype conversations she used to have with Aubrey suddenly seemed to be falling to Beca, scrunched up in her desk chair with brown hair tangled atop her head and her headphones locked tight over her ears. And, when she happened to stroll through campus for old time’s sake—oh, once every week or so—it tended to be Beca to whom she granted first visitation rights.

When Beca kissed her, in a rush of uncertainty and surprise, Chloe kissed her back.

And now, against all odds, they’re kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

She feels so _bad_ about not telling Aubrey, but it seems like one of those things which, if not mentioned immediately, too easily slides into secrecy. It sits heavy on her breastbone, like it was made to sit just _there_ , and like the fact that she doesn’t talk about it actually makes it more special. Which is dumb. Secrets only ever hurt people, and Chloe has always made a very particular point of being honest because of it. Besides, she shouldn’t be treating this as something to be _ashamed_ of.

Beca is the least shameful thing she’s ever had.

The other girls find out, one by one; Cynthia Rose slaps her hand and says, “ _Nice_ ,” and Stacie wiggles her eyebrows lewdly, and Fat Amy throws back her head and shouts, “ _Is there anyone here who isn’t a lesbian?_ ” They laugh, and they titter, and they haul the pair of them into a soppy, too-many-personed hug that makes Chloe’s bones feel like they’ve been rubbed raw.

But they don’t tell Aubrey. She’s not honestly sure if any of them even still talk to Aubrey—it might well just be her, as rare as that is becoming—but if they do, the topic never comes up. It’s _her_ secret, hers and Beca’s, and no one else has any business outing them. The girls get that.

Beca is easy to fall in love with.

It’s the part where Chloe should be shouting it from the rooftops that seems shockingly difficult.

***

Before she knows it, they’re dating. Not _dating_ -dating, where they can hold hands and kiss in the rain and ride tractors around the yard together like in all of his (their) favorite movies, but it’s a form of the beast all the same. He sets his relationship status on Facebook, leaving her name out of it, and assures her that he has told everyone who asked about his “smokin’ hot girlfriend in Canada.”

He’s doing that for her. Keeping it on the down low, putting on a show. She feels guilty about it, even though she hasn’t expressly asked for him to do so.

The thing is, even though she got sort of used to Beca breaking the rules—for the whole four months the two of them dated, before school fell back into motion and they’d decided they were better off as snarky friends—it feels different for her. She has standards, painfully rigid ones, and it’s one thing to let someone else slip from expectations like those.

It’s a whole different animal, letting herself slide down that ladder.

Jesse just feels… _acceptable_ , somehow, in a way no other Treble ever would. He’s sweet, and though Beca had always insisted the truth of that last year, Aubrey never quite let herself see _how_ sweet. Boys are always, she’d told herself, inclined toward acts of grace and chivalry if it means getting into a girl’s bed. That doesn’t make them _sweet_.

But Jesse is, in an honest-to-God sense of the word; he pens long emails, rambling and pretty much grammar-free, and leaves songs on her voicemail, and has no problem at all with her falling asleep in front of the webcam at night, because it feels so nice to have him smiling at her from three thousand miles away. He sends her stuffed otters, and mixtapes, and DVDs of movies she’s never gotten around to seeing, which they watch together on a two-second lag. He’s kind, and honest, and so beautifully open with her that she can’t resist breaking her own oath.

No one was ever supposed to be like that.

No one was every supposed to take that kind of an _interest_ , and, truthfully, she’s not sure what he sees in her. Beca was so different, so smirky and unmotivated and sardonic; they’re nothing alike. If he had a “type,” based on Beca, she certainly wouldn’t be it.

“If I wanted Beca,” he tells her one night over the phone, “I would be with Beca. She’s cool and all, don’t get me wrong, but she doesn’t…she doesn’t appreciate the marvel of juice pouches.”

Aubrey laughs, feeling breathless and stupid and young. “I love juice pouches.”

“And,” he goes on, a teasing edge to his voice, “she hated Rocky.”

“No,” Aubrey deadpans, and giggles when he makes his voice deep and silly and growls, “ _Adrian_!” into the receiver.

It’s wrong, and she feels guilty, but he’s just too charming to pass up.

She just wishes she could tell Chloe.

***

“You’ve got to do it sometime,” Beca says softly, reaching around her in the darkness to palm her stomach. They’re stretched out in Chloe’s tiny bedroom, in her wonderfully-cheap, only slightly-ghetto apartment; Chloe, on her side, is scrolling through old texts from Aubrey.

The last one came two weeks ago, on a Tuesday. They’d talked about the merits of dry-cleaning. It wasn’t one of their finest conversations.

She sighs. “I know.”

“I’m not pushing,” Beca hurries on, which Chloe already knew. Beca isn’t much of a pusher. Her fingertips slide beneath Chloe’s t-shirt, nails scratching sigils into her skin. “I just don’t like seeing you all…not-Chloe.”

Chloe doesn’t particularly like _being_ not-Chloe, either, but she’s not sure what to do about it. Aubrey, apart from a Christmas gift, and a Christmas card, and a Christmas phone call that lasted altogether too little time, has been pretty much off the radar all winter. Chloe keeps up with her Facebook status changes, and every once in a great while—when Aubrey isn’t working, and Beca isn’t over—they manage to catch each other in a vid chat, but…

 _Always_ is starting to feel a little tattered at the edges.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Beca rolls until she’s got Chloe on her back, her knees pushing deep into the mattress. Chloe’s hips instinctively rise to meet the thigh hovering between her legs. She bites her lip.

“You’re wearing too many clothes?”

“Not _that_.” Beca rolls her eyes. Her gaze roams across Chloe’s face, down her chest, stalling on the strip of bared skin between her sleep shorts and her rumpled shirt. “Ah. Well. In a minute, we can work on that. But no, I was thinking you should go visit her.”

It’s weird, but that idea hasn’t really occurred to Chloe before. Mostly because it wouldn’t be cheap, or easy, and because she could never go without the guarantee that Aubrey actually _wants_ her there.

Her heart aches with the thought that her best friend might not want that at all.

“I don’t know,” she says. Her hands reach for Beca’s shirt, guiding it up over her torso without thought. “I don’t know if I could afford it. Plane tickets are crazy.”

“We could raise the money,” Beca offers helpfully, wriggling loose of the shirt and tossing it over her shoulder. “The Bellas could do a fundraiser thing. Like a—“

“Car wash?” Chloe asks wryly. Beca grins, slipping the phone from her hand and placing it carefully on the nightstand.

“Something like that.”

“Maybe,” Chloe concedes, knowing it probably isn’t going to happen. Not anytime soon, at least. It just feels too strange, when she’s been in this relationship, heart and soul, for months and hasn’t so much as given Aubrey a clue about it. It feels too strange, thinking about their friendship at all.

Beca lowers herself for a long kiss, her hands holding to Chloe’s cheeks with the same gentle reverence that always makes Chloe’s stomach tangle around itself pleasantly. “Think about it,” is all she says before her palms begin to wander and her tongue finds something better to focus on than talking. Chloe sighs into her, nodding.

She wonders if Aubrey misses her even half this much.

***

“You should go see her,” Jesse tells her. He’s on Spring Break, and, having hopped a Greyhound that left him smelling just a little too much like the road, appeared at her door three days ago. It was the first time she’d seen his face in person since Christmas, and she was startled by how violently her heart leapt in her chest when his arms tugged her right off the ground.

They’re laying together on the floor of her meager living room now, half-watching Titanic on her cracked little television. He spends more time glancing at her than at the screen, and it makes Aubrey feel gorgeous in a way she’s never known before.

“I can’t,” she tells him when the frustration dies down enough for words. “She’s so far away, and I’m working sixty hours a week.” Not that she needs to tell _him_ that. Honestly, his “girlfriend in Canada” is so much more work than she feels worth.

His hand, big and broad and delightfully warm, covers hers. “You could come back with me for a week or so. You could—“

She hates herself for how her head shakes at breakneck speed, her hair mussing itself against the thick beige carpet. He trails off, shrugging.

“Right. Sorry.”

“It’s not _that_ ,” she insists, even though they both know it sort of is. “It’s just…I haven’t seen her in so long.”

“She’s still Chloe,” he tells her calmly, even as he pushes himself to a sitting position and cracks his neck. “I see her around. She’s been hanging out a lot with—“

He stops, too suddenly. She raises an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“The Bellas,” he finishes, with an awkward sort of hiccup between the words that makes her think it maybe wasn’t at all what he set out to say. “She’s been with the Bellas. Helping them with their sets and stuff.”

“Spying?” she teases. He runs his fingers through his hair and bestows upon her his most charming, ridiculous grin. It takes up half his face, and still, he is the most handsome man she’s ever known. Her heart pounds.

“They’re great competition. Gotta play dirty to win clean.”

He’s kidding, she knows; for a Treble, he’s the biggest boy scout ever. Still, the idea of him wandering past her old rehearsal space, hands in his pocket, hangdog expression on his face, makes her blood boil in a very old, rather relentless way.

“Steer clear,” she mock-warns, “or I won’t come see you guys lose at the finals.”

His whole face lights up, his body springing north before she’s ready for it. He stands like some kind of idiotic superhero, hands on his hips, and announces, “By George, I think I’ve got it!”

He’s such a doofus. She loves him, she really does, but when he gets all excited like that, it makes her wonder why she’s spending so much time with a dumb _boy_ , anyway.

***

Chloe turns her ticket over in her hands, trying not to listen to the rush of blood in her ears. She shouldn’t be nervous about this, she reasons. She shouldn’t be nervous at all. For the first time in five years, she won’t be standing on that stage, pouring her everything into a routine that could break or break them. She won’t be doing anything at all, except smiling and cheering, keeping her eyes on her girlfriend all the while.

It depresses her, in a not-entirely-unexpected way. She lived for that stage, once.

But no, she shouldn’t be nervous. This is just another moment in time, and even if she hasn’t actually _seen_ Aubrey in months, and even if the last time they spoke—before Beca schemed to set this little rendezvous up, at least—was back in March, it shouldn’t be scary. Aubrey is the best friend she’s ever had.

The best friend she’s ever lied to.

Yeah, okay, maybe _slight_ anxiety is appropriate.

***

“I can’t do this,” she sputters, looking this way and that, praying she won’t make accidental eye contact with anyone she knows. Jesse squeezes her by the shoulders, leaning down to kiss her forehead gently.

“You’ll be fine. Hey, I’m the one leading a mash-up of Neon Trees and Jay Z. _That’s_ some scary shit.”

He kisses her again, the barest sweep of lips against her jawline; if anyone were to see it, they might misinterpret the action as a fumble, an attempt at a hug that doesn’t quite go as planned. Her heart wrenches at the thought of this sweet, wonderful man hiding for her. Still. After all these months.

Six months of hiding is just too absurd. He’s right. It’s time, and she will be fine. After all, this is Chloe she’s worried about. Chloe loves everyone. Chloe loves her. A few months of silence can’t rock them.

She just wishes she could convince her palms to stop sweating.

***

Their seats are side-by-side, as both of them had expected; Aubrey knows Jesse well enough to know he’s not above asking Beca for help, and Chloe knows Beca well enough to know she’s almost as stubborn as she is reclusive. They’re having this talk today, and they can only pray it will go well.

The initial hug is more than awkward. Chloe is already seated when Aubrey comes clipping down the aisle of the Lincoln Center auditorium in her pristine heels and elegant skirt, and she all but lunges out of the chair the second she catches a glimpse of blonde hair. Her jaw conks uncomfortably against Aubrey’s shoulder, and she laughs.

“You look amazing!”

She puts everything she’s got into the words, partially because they’re true—adulthood is being perfectly kind to Aubrey, whose skin has never looked smoother, and whose smile, though nervous, is as straight and even as ever—and partially because she’s a little afraid Aubrey’s going to lose it right here in the aisle. She looks lovely, but in the same way she did at competitions all through school—like that loveliness might potentially conceal some darkness that could result in either a nervous breakdown or an explosion.

She hopes, if given the choice, for the breakdown. It’s considerably easier to clean up after.

Luckily, Aubrey lapses into neither; she just sinks into the seat reserved for her and says, “You look great, too. Have you been coloring your hair?”

“ _No_ ,” Chloe teases, winking. “I’m just naturally effervescent.”

Aubrey snorts, and, for a second, it feels like they’ve been here all along. Sitting in this auditorium. Waiting for the show to start. No anxiety, or mess, or secrecy between them.

 _If only_ , Chloe thinks wistfully, watching Aubrey twist a program between her manicured hands.

She wishes she knew where to begin. It would be easiest, probably, to leap feet first into the fray with something like, _So, I’m kind of gay now, and I’ve been gaying with Beca—you remember Beca, the one you’re not quite sure if you really like?—and, well, we never made an oath about hooking up with other Bellas, so it shouldn’t be a problem, right? Right._

Easiest, and stupidest. It never crossed her mind to discuss gay rights or liberalism or politics _at all_ with Aubrey, not once, and now she realizes she has no idea how her friend feels about rainbow-oriented individuals. She knows Aubrey loves her, but how deep does love _really_ go, in the end?

She bites her tongue and waits for Aubrey to go first.

***

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Aubrey blurts, and then freezes up completely. The next words should be easy: something along the lines of, _I’m sure you’ve heard all about Jesse’s new girlfriend, hah, isn’t it funny, I’ve heard about her, too. Turns out she’s a little less Canadian than he’s been telling people…_

It should be easy, but it isn’t. She clams up harder than she ever has in her life and just sits there, staring at the curtain drawn across the stage. Chloe’s eyes bore into the side of her head, curious.

“I’ve got something to tell you, too,” she says after a moment, quietly, but before either of them can muster the courage to begin, the announcers are calling for silence in the crowd. The competition is kicking off with—oh _hell_ , are those backflips? They should have learned to backflip—some team she’s never heard of. Chloe falls back with a mute little thump, eyes on the stage.

The performances aren’t quite as incredible as Aubrey feels they should be at this stage, but they’re enjoyable all the same. She bobs her head in time with music, mouthing along to songs she knows and wrinkling her nose at the ones she doesn’t. Beside her, Chloe sits stock-still, her shoulders stiff, her hands motionless against her knees. Aubrey swallows.

If Chloe is this nervous, what could she possibly want to tell Aubrey, anyway? The options spiral through her mind, out of control, each more horrifying than the last. Chloe is pregnant. Chloe is pregnant with alien spawn. Chloe is a Russian spy, sent to earn her trust and spin her head around. Chloe is _also_ dating Jesse.

And just like that, she’s _sure_ she’s figured it out. Her jaw goes tight, her eyes closing, blocking out the admittedly-not-hideous performance of “Some Kind of Wonderful” onstage. Chloe is dating Jesse. _That’s_ why they’re both here, in the same row, beside one another. That’s why Jesse was so adamant on her flying out for finals. He’s dating Chloe on the side, and maybe he thinks if they’re all together—knowing how Aubrey and Chloe are, knowing their friendship after all those late-night, soul-baring talks—he’ll get to keep them _both_. How stupid was she, thinking he was this sweet, giving, wonderful guy, when _really_ —

He’s a Treble. She’s dating a Treble. She broke her most sacred oath for him, and now—

For the first time in a year, Aubrey is relatively certain she’s going to throw up.

And then, just when she’s on the verge of excusing herself from the aisle, the competition, Chloe’s life, in the space between “Some Kind of Wonderful” and the opening chords of Neon Trees’ "Everybody Talks,” she hears it, loud as a bell, right next to her head.

“Aubrey, I’m _gay_.”

***

Aubrey’s head snaps around so fast, Chloe half-expects it to keep going in a full revolution. She struggles to back up, ignoring the glares and raised eyebrows of the people around them.

“I mean, not _gay_ -gay, like, exclusively. But kind of. In that I like women. Too. Woman. One. Um. And I don’t know how you feel about it, and I’m really, really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but—“

“You’re _gay_?” Aubrey repeats, obviously shell-shocked. Chloe bows her head slightly.

“Yes.”

“So, wait, you’re _not_ sleeping with Jesse?”

Chloe’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “What? No. Why would I be sleeping with Jesse? Wait, Beca’s _ex_ , Jesse?”

“No,” Aubrey says, too quickly. Then, her lips twisting: “Yeah. That Jesse. You’re not sleeping with Jesse?”

“No!” Chloe absurdly wants to laugh. Up on the stage, the Trebles are cavorting like the talented assholes they are. Jesse, oblivious to his status as the centerpiece for their conversation, belts for all he’s worth and performs a strangely complicated leg routine. The girls in the audience scream.

Aubrey tilts her head back, watching him. This just got so much more awkward than she was prepared for.

“Who’s sleeping with Jesse?” Chloe is asking, her full attention on the side of Aubrey’s head. She winces and bites the inside of her cheek.

“I—um…I am. A little.”

Now Chloe looks _really_ confused. “He’s dating somebody. Some girl in Canada—“ Recognition dawns all at once, visibly; blue eyes go wide, her mouth falling open. “Oh. My. _God_. _You’re_ the Canadian?”

“And you’re gay!” Aubrey nearly shouts, so as not to lose track of the real point of the matter. They’ve _both_ been keeping secrets here, and even if hers is the bigger of the two—what with her breaking a vow they’ve both clung to for the whole of their university careers—Chloe isn’t _completely_ out of the woods.

The crowd around them is starting to make huffy little noises, shushing them and scowling. One elderly woman gives Aubrey a sympathetic smile. It almost makes her feel worse.

Onstage, Jesse is finishing up his segment of the song. Aubrey glances up just in time to meet his gaze and catch the tail end of his goofball-excited thumbs up. She groans.

“You’re dating a _Treblemaker_ ,” Chloe says wonderingly, like she’s just found out the Easter Bunny is both real and boinking Santa Claus. Aubrey groans again, sliding down in her seat. “Oh my God, wait until Beca hears about—“

Her mouth snaps shut. Aubrey straightens again, eyebrows arched to her hairline.

“Beca? Why would we be telling _Beca_?”

It’s hard not to feel hurt at the idea that her best friend would run off with her darkest secret and go blabbing it to _that girl_. Is this what’s happened in her absence? Chloe and Beca?

…Chloe. And _Beca_?

“Oh my _God_ ,” Aubrey squeals, right as the Trebles’ number ends and the crowd leaps to their feet. She leaps right along with them, hands in the air.

Chloe’s shoulders droop, her cheeks coloring. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” she babbles. “I didn’t know what you would—“

Aubrey dissolves into hysterical laughter, head wagging from side to side. “You’re gay with _Beca_ ,” she chokes around giggles. The old woman is looking at her again, this time with an expression of unease that suggests she’s considering phoning the nearest asylum. Chloe reaches up and drags Aubrey back into her chair by the wrist, grinning sheepishly.

“How long?” Aubrey asks when she can speak again. Onstage, the Trebles are closing out their performance and skipping off into the wings. The Bellas are next, and she knows they should be paying attention, but this is just too much to ignore. “How long have you and Beca been…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “ _Lady-toning_.”

Chloe makes a face like she might die laughing if she lets herself start. “About six, seven months,” she admits, and Aubrey wants to be mad at her, but finds she doesn’t necessarily have the footing for it. Her eyes skid to the stage, taking in their old team.

“What are they _wearing_?”

“Cynthia Rose got to plan the costumes for this one,” Chloe informs her, which explains the men’s trousers and half-unbuttoned dress shirts, the suspenders slung pointlessly low, and the ties looped messily around their necks. Aubrey thanks every aca-god in the pantheon she wasn’t involved in this. They look ridiculous.

Although, going off of the sappy-eyed stare Chloe is giving to the very middle of the stage, she’s not sure the lesbians in the crowd agree with her.

Beca has put together an assortment of songs she’s not all that familiar with, although she does recognize snippets here and there—a dash of Journey’s “Any Way You Want It”, half a verse of Maroon 5’s “Misery”; she wonders what sort of _theme_ they were going for, if there had been one at all. God, they look so slapdash up there without her, without Chloe.

Slapdash, maybe, but still fantastic; the vocals are flawless, the dance steps slightly less creative than she would have liked, but still followed without a hitch. Stacie must have been involved there, she thinks wryly, judging by all the hip grinding she sees up there.

It’s a more than passable defense for last year’s title. Aubrey has to admit to being impressed.

Chloe looks absolutely delighted by the whole thing, especially when Beca tosses her a wink and a blown kiss from center stage. Aubrey leans over, feeling strangely light.

“She treats you well, right? I don’t have to kick her ass?”

Chloe gazes at her with surprise and amusement. “She’s wonderful,” she says, tangling her hand with Aubrey’s and clutching hard. “She’s amazing.”

“So’s Jesse,” Aubrey tells her boldly, waiting for a rebuttal. Chloe only smiles.

“I know. He’s a sweetheart.”

“And you’re not sleeping with him,” Aubrey points out happily. Chloe rolls her eyes.

“Gross. Never.”

Aubrey is satisfied by this. Holding her best friend’s hand tightly, she lets herself enjoy the rest of the performance. When it’s over, she joins the crowd in their standing ovation, leaning over once more to speak into Chloe’s ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t _you_?” Chloe challenges, rightfully so. Aubrey blushes.

“He’s a _Treble_.”

“He’s a good guy,” Chloe corrects her. “A great one. And a friend of mine. You really think I’d have judged you for that?”

“I broke the oath,” Aubrey says in a very small voice. Chloe knocks against her shoulder.

“I always thought it was a dumb oath, anyway,” she proclaims breezily. Aubrey hunches a little, feeling at once proud and embarrassed.

“What about you? Since when have you _ever_ cared what people think of you?”

Chloe gives her a look, open and vulnerable, like she should know this already. “You’re not _people_. I care what you think. Always have.”

They’re hugging before Aubrey knows it, Chloe grasping the back of her blouse like a child terrified of being abandoned. She almost wants to cry with the relief of it all. She’s out. Chloe’s out. And they are still, despite everything, who they have always been.

It’s amazing.

***

The Bellas sweep for a second year in a row, and Jesse joins them for a celebratory dinner. He drapes an arm casually around Aubrey in their booth, grinning foolishly across the table at his ex-girlfriend and Chloe when they engage in a disgusting little shoulder-bumping match over the menus.

“Adorable,” he teases. Aubrey slaps at his chest.

“Be nice.”

“I am!” he protests. “They’re my favorite lesbians since Xena!”

Beca snorts, flicking her balled-up straw wrapper; it bounces off the middle of his forehead. She looks proud of herself.

“Great job tonight,” Aubrey tells her, somewhat reluctantly. Beca’s not so bad, but she _has_ managed to replace Aubrey to a degree she’d never have dreamed of. It’s making this all just a little aca-awkward.

Plus, her tongue has been in Jesse’s mouth. Which is, y’know, not helping.

“Thanks.” Beca smiles. “It was a tough sell without you guys, but we did our best.”

Chloe snuggles against her side, arm sliding around her middle and vanishing beneath her jacket. Aubrey tries to find this endearing rather than very, very strange, and mostly succeeds.

“And just to be clear,” she adds, ignoring the furrowed glance Chloe shoots her, “you’re, like, totally over Jesse, right? Totally?”

Beca snorts again, tossing her hair in a remarkable, if unintentional, parody of Stacie. “He’s all yours, princess.”

“Yup,” Jesse chimes in. He noses against her cheek, an overgrown puppy still riding high on his performance. “Alllll yours.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” Beca deadpans, laughing when he whips a sugar packet across the table.

“This is what they do now,” Chloe tells her. Aubrey feels a pang for a second, like she’s been left out of some massive, wonderful joke. She lives so far away from these people who used to be her family, and even if tonight is amazing, what’s going to happen when she gets back on that plane?

 _Don’t think about it_ , she tells herself when Chloe stretches across to grab both of her hands.

“Can I just say,” Jesse is announcing even as he tries to balance a spoon on his nose. Chloe and Beca watch him, expressions very much like those of older sisters watching their little brother misbehave. “Can I just say what a _relief_ this all is?”

“That your girlfriend no longer has to be Canadian?” Beca drawls. They laugh.

“That we can _talk_ about this.” The spoon stays, wavering unsteadily. He beams. “I mean, do you have any idea how hard it was to keep you two a secret?”

Aubrey straightens up, eyebrows narrowing. Across the table, Beca is making _ex nay_ motions across her throat.

“Are you telling me,” Aubrey says slowly, menacingly, “that you _knew_ about them?”

He swallows, the spoon clattering to the table. “Um. Knew is a very strong word…”

“You knew and you didn’t _tell_ me?” She’s not _really_ mad—she actually loves him all the more for never once outing her friend—but it’s astonishingly fun to watch his eyes jump from face to face, seeking the help that won’t be coming. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Chloe giggle.

“I just, um.” He grins, a bashful little boy. “I love you?”

No, she doesn’t need to worry about what comes next. Not with these three—even Beca, who presses a kiss to Chloe’s temple and then stares Aubrey down like she’s just _daring_ her to say something. Not when Jesse’s arm fits so nicely around her shoulders. Not with Chloe holding her hands like they’re a lifeline she can’t dream of letting go.

Chloe is her best friend. Always has been, and always will be, come hell, high water, lesbians and Treblemakers. This is the way it should be. Being apart doesn’t mean a thing, when you love someone the way they love each other.

They’re perfectly, unquestionably fine.

The distance can kiss her ass.  



End file.
